Dark Shimmer

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “I know which ones you sell to the glassblowers.” I get to work. The pile between us grows fast. “Tell me about your homeland.”

  “You don’t want to move there, if that’s what you’re thinking. There are wars all the time.”

  “Is that why you left?”

  Giordano lifts one side of his mouth as though I’ve said something funny. “I left to be with my own kind.”

  “I thought you said you were a stranger when you came here.”

  He shoots me a glance and looks down at his task. “What is it you want to know, Dolce? Why are you asking about that kingdom?”

  “Does everyone love the king?”

  “Hardly. He’s got a whole army to protect him.”

  “Just him?”

  “Well, no. The entire kingdom. But it’s always the kings who manage to start the wars, so they’re the ones people try to kill.”

  “So no one likes him?”

  “They revere him, I guess. He’s rich. Powerful.”

  “And what about the princesses? Do people love them?”

  “Those haughty spoiled brats? They walk like this.” Giordano moves from the hips up, as though strutting, stiff-backed. Even though he’s sitting, I can tell the gait he’s mimicking. “They don’t talk to commoners except to bark orders.”

  I blink. “You’re lying. Princesses in stories are lovely.”

  “Stories aren’t life, Dolce.”

  I find a tiny live shrimp in the net and pop it into my mouth. It crunches sweet and salty. “But even if they walk like that, no one would kill them, right? No one would dare.”

  “No.” Giordano stares at me. “Why are you talking about death today?”

  “Everyone should be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People kill ones they don’t like.”

  “That’s murder you’re talking about, child. Good people don’t do that.”

  “That’s not true. I saw that baby go off in the boat in the middle of the night…off into the lagoon.”

  “Mella’s baby? Is that what you’re talking about? No one murdered Mella’s baby. He’ll be adopted.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Giordano shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  “I face the truth. No one here likes me.”

  “The mothers like you.”

  I shake my head.

  “They do, Dolce. I heard them talking. They’ve taken to you lately. Some of them are sorry you’ve been so left out. They talk about how odd you’ve become, but they know you’re not bad. They look at you differently now.”

  “Only because I’m making the mirrors. They think it’ll be my fingers and toes that go pink instead of their sons’ fingers and toes. I might be saving their boys, so the mothers can see potential for me. Who knows? Someday I might be someone who could die in place of their boys.”

  Giordano wipes sweat off his upper lip. “You have a dramatic streak.”

  “But you’re not saying I’m wrong.”

  “You go talking like that, and you’ll find yourself isolated for good.”

  “That’s all right with me. I’m supposed to be isolated. I’m a princess.”

  Giordano laughs.

  I stand. I could kick his buckets of crabs off the fondamenta.

  Giordano catches my foot in midair. “Go away, Dolce. Go be a princess. Pink toes suit a princess.”

  I walk away haughty. This is my princess walk. I don’t need anyone. I am a princess. And no one will dare try to kill me.

  The sun is low on the horizon. It’ll set in minutes. It’s funny how the sun seems to rise so slowly but set so quickly. “Mamma, we need to hurry.”

  “Another minute.” Mamma greedily throws two more crabs into the bucket I’m holding. She finally stops and grins at me. “Enough.”

  We slosh back to shore, then walk home, our shifts dripping. It’s dark by the time we go through the door. I build the fire—that’s my job—then change into dry clothes.

  Mamma’s already plopping crabs into the pot, one by one. Her clean shift smells like dry grass. I love the smells of autumn. I kiss the top of her head and watch the gray shells turn orange in the flickering firelight. “You’re an expert at foot-fishing.”

  “There isn’t much to it, is there? Anyone could be an expert. I’m glad Giordano taught you his secret. And I’m glad the tide was so low tonight that I wasn’t afraid to do it myself.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid ever, Mamma. I can teach you to swim.”

  “You’re the mermaid, Dolce, not me. I’m content on land.” She laughs. “Except when I have a craving for crabs. Then nothing else can satisfy me, and look, I go right into the water.”

  I don’t have cravings like that. Except maybe for people to like me. Or to love me. Mamma makes life seem so simple, craving things she can have.

  Mamma pinches my arm playfully. “My perfect daughter, you’ve made it so that I can satisfy my whims any time I want.”

  Perfect. Sometimes when Mamma says things like that, I’m so happy. But right now I’m too hungry to be happy. My stomach growls. “I guess I should throw roots into the water for me.”

  “I can’t lure you with crabs, not even when I caught them?”

  “I hate them.”

  “Who can hate crabs?”

  “They take forever to pick through. How many are there in this pot? Fourteen? Fifteen? And still I bet you won’t be full when you finish.”

  “You have to take pleasure in the whole thing, Dolce. You talk while you pick out the flesh. You tell stories. You—”

  “What if you’re alone?”

  “What?”

  “What if you have no one to talk to?”

  “Then you plan. You figure out what you’ll do in the day ahead. Or you just dream. You’re a good dreamer, Dolce. I see you sitting sometimes, back against a wall, sun on your cheeks. You know how to dream.”

  Mamma watches me when I don’t realize it. I bet she’s the only one who ever looks at me when they don’t have to. “You know what I’m dreaming of right now?” I ask.

  Mamma thrusts her head forward and raises an eyebrow. Her cheeks pucker in expectation. “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Dolce. Just do it.”

  I close my eyes. A moment later the vinegary smell under my nose is unmistakable. I open my eyes and quick take the plate of sardines Mamma’s holding up.

  She laughs. “I browned the onions slow, like you like, so the sweetness comes out strong. But I added something new.”

  I sit on the floor with the marvelous dish in my lap. “Raisins? And what are these?” I pop a little white thing into my mouth. “Pine nuts. Did you add pine nuts?”

  “Raisins and pine nuts cover stinky onion breath. I want my fair daughter to smell as sweet as she is. I cooked it this morning, so it’s had all day to grow succulent.” She laughs again and scoops crabs from the pot. “As succulent as these crabs.”

  We sit there, eating and telling stories late into the night, and I make sure to eat my sardines at the same pace Mamma eats her crabs. Just to keep her company. She’d do it for me. I am the luckiest monster in the world.

  “Dolce! Come quick!” The voice is distant.

  I don’t even have to look to know it’s Tommaso. He’s ten and likes to follow me around, even though I’m fifteen. Sometimes his chatter makes my headaches come, and, oh, Lord, they pound me senseless. But most of the time I listen so I can learn about everything that’s happening without having to get near the others.

  I’m working on a new mirror. A finished one is propped to my right. I have one propped to my left, too. I don’t look directly into them, of course. I look from the side and I watch the grasses behind me shake in the breeze and see the branches of the far-off apple trees laden with fruit. These mirrors calm me.

  Tommaso runs up to me and leans over, catching his breath. “You have to come.”

  His manner frighte
ns me. But I pretend that I don’t care. I am a princess, after all.

  Besides, I’m busy. The quicksilver on this sheet of tin didn’t form an even layer. Lately my hands shake as bad as Venerio’s. I’ll have to wipe it all off and apply it again. I must live up to my reputation. My mirror technique has indeed been adopted. Everyone on the glassblowers’ island uses it now. So I need to make my technique even better—faster, somehow. Venerio says that’s important, otherwise we’ll be out of a job soon—and he says it angry, sometimes furious; he’s become a grouch. So I’m working on the technique. I’m the best there is.

  I put two fingers on the spot between my eyebrows and massage in a circle to fend off a headache. A shadow comes at me from both sides. I can barely see it, but it’s there.

  Tommaso touches my shoulder. I’m leaning over the low limestone, so it’s easy for him to reach there. Still, I can’t remember the last time anyone touched my shoulder. Or my face. His fingers make me shiver. I have a fleeting image of clasping them and pulling his hand across my eyes, my cheeks, my lips. The poor boy would be shocked.

  Maria the Virgin didn’t answer my prayers, no matter how many times I begged her. I kept growing. I’m enormous now. The tallest men don’t even come up to my ribs; most don’t reach my waist. If I ever have a husband, he’ll have to stand on tiptoe to kiss my breasts, and even then I’ll probably need to lean forward. But of course I know I will never have a husband. No one will ever choose me. And I’d never have children anyway.

  Sometimes I press my mouth into the dirt and scream.

  I’ve been a princess for three years now. No one acknowledges it, but I walk like princesses on the mainland walk. Like Giordano showed me. Except now and then my legs give way and I wind up sitting on the ground, muscles atwitch. I have some sort of weakness.

  And I know Venerio has it, too. We’re the ones who touch the quicksilver. I’ll be like Venerio someday, guiding some other person whose hands are still steady while mine do a frantic dance in the air.

  But I don’t let on to anyone. If a person should happen upon me after I’ve collapsed on a path and asks what I’m doing, I yell it’s no business of theirs where I choose to sit. No one knows what happens in my head or in my body. Besides, I’m fifteen; I’m no child.

  Tommaso’s hand brushes my hair aside and rests hot on the back of my neck. I press my lips together. My arms long to circle this innocent child. What I wouldn’t give for a brother, a sister.

  “Dolce,” he whispers, his mouth to my ear, “it’s your mamma.”

  I bolt upright. “Where?”

  “Follow me.”

  “Where is she?” I shout.

  “They carried her to Druda’s.”

  I’m running, racing. These absurd long legs have some use.

  My head goes all swimmy and pain throbs behind my eyes. Please, please, don’t let me collapse now. Please keep me strong. I cut along the canal and burst into Druda’s house. Margherita and Druda step away from the mattress where Mamma lies.

  Mamma sees me and opens her mouth, then gags. I quick turn her onto her side just in time—she vomits onto the floor.

  “Mamma.” I rub her back and croon in her ear, “Mamma, I’m here. What do you need?”

  She moans and curls around her stomach. Sweat bathes her.

  “I don’t understand. What?”

  She mumbles.

  I look at Druda and Margherita. “Do you understand?”

  “She ate crabs.” Druda shakes her head sadly.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Didn’t you see? Dead fish washed up on the beach this morning. All this hot weather…it’s the curse of the algae. No one should eat crabs or clams or mussels—none of that till the poison passes.” Druda lifts her hands to the ceiling as though in prayer.

  I could slap her. “Stop that! Mamma’s going to be fine!”

  “She can’t even move, Dolce.”

  Mamma pants shallowly. And I think…Yes!

  I streak out of Druda’s house straight for Francesco’s chicken yard. I chase the hens, take a flying leap, and catch one by a leg. She flaps and scratches and I almost don’t have the heart to kill her. Still, wrong things happen all the time. And what choice do I have? I wring her neck, crying hard. I race back to Druda’s kitchen and chop that hen in half. Her lungs and liver are hot and fat. I go to Mamma’s bed and tear off a bite of liver with my teeth and press it into Mamma’s mouth.

  Druda gasps. “Have you lost your mind, Dolce?”

  “Liver and lungs,” I say to Mamma. “Liver and lungs can fix anything.”

  Mamma gags, then coughs and coughs till she goes limp.

  I rub her back. “Eat the lungs at least.” I push a piece into her mouth, but her head rolls back.

  “Let her be, Dolce.” Druda speaks softly.

  “Leave her in peace.” Margherita makes the sign of the cross, then lifts the cross around her neck to her mouth for a kiss.

  “Get out of here!” I scream at Druda and Margherita. “Get out, get out!”

  The women run.

  “Mamma, they think you’re dead.” I pull her onto my lap and hold her close. “Please don’t be dead. Please. Please.”

  Her eyelids flutter. She opens them and looks at me, as though surprised. “Dolce? You’re still here?” Her voice is nearly inaudible. Then her eyes close and her head falls and her whole body goes heavy.

  I hold her a long time. Eventually, someone pries me from her. I slide to the cold stone floor. It feels good against the backs of my legs and under my hands. So many people have walked over it for so many years that the surface is smooth as skin. I could stay here forever.

  But people bustle about as though they know exactly what to do, as though they’ve been waiting to do it.

  I stand, scoop up the lungs and liver, and go outside. I won’t watch as they wash my mamma’s body.

  I walk to the grasses and leave the chicken innards for Gato Zalo. I keep walking, all the way to the fondamenta. This is as far as I can go. My whole world is behind me now. And it’s empty. My life will consist of work, and of Gato Zalo for however long wildcats live. A buzz starts in my ears.

  Mamma. No. This can’t be.

  I jump into the water before I even realize what I’m going to do. It’s the end of summer; I’m wearing my thin smock. I tie the hem in knots at the sides. This way I can swim.

  “You’re still here?” Mamma’s question. She was incredulous. “You’re still here?”

  Where else would I be?

  Where else should I be?

  I release myself to the water and swim.

  It’s early afternoon. I have the sense of impending death—my own death. But I’ve had that sense before; it means nothing. It’s Mamma who has died, not me. From crabs she caught foot-fishing. I am screaming.

  I swim hard. The next island comes close fast. I didn’t think it would be this easy. That island was always far, far, far. How could it be this close?

  I’m not cold, but my teeth chatter. A spasm shakes me and I go under, swallow salt water, come up sputtering and crying.

  Mamma is dead. My mamma. The queen of my island. The queen of my life.

  And I’m in the sea. I have no one on the island behind me anymore. But I have no one on the island ahead of me, either. I have no one anywhere.

  Have the people on these islands ever heard of me, of the monster? Would they kill me on sight? Or torture me? I’ve heard of torture; the world outside my island is full of masters of torture.

  I might as well die in the sea. Just sink.

  But my arms circle through the water, pulling me forward. My arms won’t let me drown.

  Now I can make out many houses, and a big church. There are lots more houses beyond those, more churches. Lots of people.

  I keep swimming. Soon I’ll pass this island. There will be a next one.

  Another spasm racks me. I go under; my feet reach and reach, but I can’t touch bottom, it’
s so deep. How did that happen? Fear forces my arms above my head. I surface and roll onto my back and float. If I stay this way, the water will carry me to the island without my having to decide anything.

  The coward’s way.

  I swim around the east side of the island. I hear a bell toll the noon hour, calling the faithful to prayer. I imagine everyone rushing here and there. I can’t face that many people.

  I need someplace smaller. Where people might need me, talk to me, where someone might even like me.

  Look at that: I want to live. How strange. Mamma is dead, so the best part of me is dead. But the rest isn’t. Not yet.

  I swim and swim. My arms ache, my legs ache. The first island is far behind me now. I’m not sure I could make it back there even if I wanted to. After a while my arms and legs move without my telling them to. It’s as though I could swim forever, as though I could die and keep swimming.

  Ahead, a tuft of green emerges from the water. As I swim, it grows taller. Trees. Another island. I don’t see houses.

  Deserted?

  I need to get out of the water. A deserted island is fine with me. I can live off wild greens till I figure out what to do next. I can cover myself with branches at night.

  The closer I get, the more clearly the trees sketch their outlines: tall cypresses. Mamma calls them holy.

  Mamma is dead. I should never have taught her foot-fishing.

  No one will share meals with me again. No one will sing with me at night. No one will be so happy when I bring home special foods. No one will tell me I’m beautiful.

  Mamma is dead.

  And I’m swimming to an island that looks to be deserted.

  But what does it matter if there are no people? I’m alone no matter what.

  I swim hard again. A cramp seizes me. I go under, and my feet hit the bottom. I make it to shore, stumble past rocks and pebbles to sand and grasses.

  Then I fall, and cry myself to sleep.

  A lone heron strolls among the clumps of grasses. His head is the rust red of ripe chestnuts, his black neck stripes move like eels in night water, the hump made by his back and folded wings echoes the curve of a belly full with child. The purplish-blue cap on his head marks him as king of this island. I love him instantly.